Red At Night
by Mach56
Summary: A merchant leaves Bilgewater at dusk, just after picking up some stragglers who shed light on what had occurred. One-Shot, a interpretative epilogue of the Bilgewater event.


Red at Night

* * *

Bilgewater was particularly noisy this evening, too noisy for Greig's taste. The waves seemed to sense the excitement and roughen in response. Not an ideal situation for the merchant, but the red hue of the sky beckoned, the promise of safe travels.

He marched down the length of his vessel, surveying the deckhands move through the motions, checking the masts, stowing any remaining cargo, finishing any last business on the dock. Yet despite the activity, they moved so slowly, so slurred, as if they wanted to stay on the island and be witness to what would happen on the 'morrow. They were certainly distracted, and Greig couldn't blame them.

Bilgewater was in chaos. The absence of the leviathan hunters was proof of that: their massive vessels still secured in the docks, although the prime time for leviathan fishing would be in just an hour. The serpent callers stood silent on the massive hills, nobody beckoning the sea beasts forth. Rumors flew as fast as rounds, while gunfire and blazes pockmarked the rough sea-port. It was a time for fame and glory, but Greig and his crew were too smart for that, the inventory safely stowed away in the hull of his ship, _The Horizon._

"Cap'n," The first mate called out to him, walking onto the ship from the jetty, "We have some others lookin' for passage."

Grieg sighed, stepping away from the stern and hopping down to the deck. There had been numerous gents looking to tag along on his ride. Some he accepted, others he turned away. Two strange gents were hoping for a trip for Piltover. A long-shot, that was, but Greig referred them to _The Puffer_ down the pier, an associate he knew was destined for the hex-tech city, leaving just this night.

"This vessel is bound for Short-Peak, savvy?" He began with doubt in his voice, inspecting the group. "Closest port to Port Mourn."

Many of the group bounced right off the ship at the mention of Mourn, the cursed place that had fallen to the harrowing just under a year ago. Yet a chosen few remained.

Grieg blinked in modest surprise, but he could tell why some would stay. One man had ash in his hair, and blood on his hands, and a scent of grog. Others had blood on their minds, their eyes wide with fear. These were those who had lost in that battle for glory, and Greig almost felt bad when he asked for the toll.

A number muttered and grumbled as they produced the gold kraken, no options they would want to explore. The ashy man looked at him with a forlorn sense of desperation.

"Take all I got, sir. But I don't have a kraken. Please."

The first mate made a move to restrain the man as he stepped forward, trying to anchor himself onto the ship. Greig took a step back, arms in the air and an apology on his lips. He counted the silvers that the man presented to him, but it simply wasn't enough.

"I'm sorry, sir, but this ship is almost to the brim, and I've spent much on the bearded lady for a good travel..."

"Let the boy on," another one of the new arrivals grumbled, tossing a pouch at Greig. He snatched it out of the air, and examined the contents. Under a golden kraken, for sure, but alongside the desperate one's silver it passed the grade.

"Is that enough?"

Greig took notice of the benefactor, a rather old looking fellow with a quiet air around him, a man he completely glossed over. He had the smell of salt over his face, unblemished by smoke or grime.

"Took a dive for sunken treasure, did you?" Greig said quizzically as the man stared back, before shrugging.

"S'all I have, let the boy on."

"Fine, fine then," Greig continued as he snatched the silver out of the desperate mans hand, nodding to his mate, "Lucky day for you, lad."

"Sir," His first mate began hastily, "Its best that we get going."

Greig shrugged, acknowledging the advice. He flicked a Kraken overboard and into the black sea, a last-minute offering to the fickle goddess.

"Aye, its best that we do. May the Bearded Lady grant us favor, eh?"

The new-comers agreed, and the bindings were loosened, the vessel floating free from the docks. Some Warf-rats scampered up the ropes as they were pulled from the water, quick to avoid the jaws of the razorfish that leapt up at the lines. Greig watched the acrobatics unfold with a sense of curiosity.

"My, the seas are quite ravenous this evening."

"Must be from the feast at White Warf." One of the stowaways began.

Another flare of gunfire, and Greig glanced at the suddenly receding city, its fires flickering like candles and fireflies caught in the night. Greig was curious, the whole crew was.

"Is it true? Did the Dead Pool really sink?"

"Aye," The ashen man responded, "The crew all went to the depths. Everyone's point'n fingers at _The Syren._ The girl blasted the bonecarver himself."

"Gangplank dead?" Greig spoke in almost a whisper. The prospect of no longer having to pay the cruel bastard's tithe was quite the development. He sensed his first mate shift uneasily.

"Most like," The salt-cleaned man responded with a shake, "They lookin' for his body now... but you can never be too sure."

"Agreed," Greig agreed with a nod, walking back to his post, "May they all sleep soundly with the Bearded Lady, then. My crew will point you to your abodes."

Greig stayed up, watching the calm winds slowly take them further and further away from the noise, the flame, the chaos that brewed on the Capital of the Blue Flame. He saw _The Puffer_ do the same, its captain just as eager to return to the orderly ports of Piltover. A queasy man, that Mitch was, no stomach to him.

The longer he watched, the less he looked at the metal ship and the more he looked to the land. There was a hypnotic drag towards the island, the more intoxicating the further they sailed away. Greig was so distracted he did not hear the man talk to him.

"Nice view?"

The clean man was fiddling with his knife on one hand, holding a plank of wood on the other. Both of his eyes glared up at Greig and the wheel of the rudder.

"Quite the sight, yes."

The clean man nodded.

"Its been a long time since Bilgewater has been this bright. The Dead Pool's captain really put a damper on it, for the longest time."

"Been around that long, have you?"

"Of course," the passenger said with a subdued smile, "I remember first setting eyes to this sort of Bilgewater from a distance, only I docked. Its the sign of opportunity, you see? In the rough and tumble, anyone can rise. Anyone can fall."

"You telling me I should turn this ship 'round?" Greig asked, to the passengers amusement.

"No, no. Just an observation. If one wants to make it big, you have to plan it big. Takes time, some gumption, some luck," The clean man shrugged, his hands extended momentarily , "and some patience. It takes the right moment to rise. I don't reckon the moment is now, do you?"

"I suppose not."

Greig glanced at his first mate, an ordered him to take the wheel for the time being. He needed some sleep, and some shelter from the cold gales that begun to pick up speed, shelter from the strange beauty of the burning port.

He walked down and took one long survey of the crew working to keep the ship on course. Water splashed in and seeped out of the vessel, the salty spray deterring nobody. Not even the old man, who was busy at work, slowly carving into the shard of wood he held. Calmly. Quietly.

Making every cut count.

* * *

End


End file.
